TRIO TRESPASSERS

Back on the rooftop, Debu sat quietly, the winds cooling the sweat on his forehead. The hay doll and the girl had wandered off, and silence returned.

But his mind wasn't resting.

Krishna's words echoed again----"We have to get stronger."

"Ishu's out there risking everything," Debu muttered to himself. "And I'm up here animating dolls."

He stood, stretched, and looked around.

The book Krishna made sat beside him. He'd finished every chapter. Every page. It was good—packed with spells, theory, techniques.

But it wasn't enough.

He needed something sharper. Quicker. Something that would let him stand his ground when fists and fire wouldn't work.

A SWORD.

He leapt off the hut and headed straight for the village blacksmith—one of the few people who hadn't spoken much since their arrival.

Inside the small forge, heat clung to the air. Tools hung neatly. Blades of all shapes lined the walls. At the corner was blacksmith, focused.

The blacksmith didn't even glance up. He kept hammering at a half-melted blade, his brows locked in a scowl like they'd been that way for decades.

"I want to learn swordsmanship," Debu said, trying to sound like he meant it.

The blacksmith stopped. Just for a moment.

He turned, looked Debu up and down, then snorted.

"Magic boy wants to play knight now? Cute."

Debu frowned. "I'm serious."

"You're clumsy. Distracted. You wave your hands and things happen. Swordsmanship doesn't forgive laziness. You're not built for this."

That hit harder than expected.

Debu stepped closer. "Then help me build what I'm missing."

No reply.

"I'm not joking," he said, louder. "Teach me."

The blacksmith set the hammer down with a clang. He turned slowly, wiping grease-stained hands on a torn cloth. His eyes were steel—cold, merciless, and unimpressed.

"You're serious?" he said, voice low. "Then go home."

Debu frowned. "I'm asking you to train me."

"No," the blacksmith said. "You're asking me to waste my time."

He stepped forward, looming larger.

"Your hands know comfort. Your feet know soft ground. You've never gripped steel long enough to bleed from it. Swordsmanship isn't a hobby—it's a final scream in the face of death. And you? You still think pain is optional."

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The heat from the forge filled the silence between each word.

Debu stared back, lips tight, fists clenched. He didn't speak—not yet.

The blacksmith's gaze lingered on him for a second longer, then turned away with a grunt. "Waste of breath," he muttered. "Go play with dolls if it makes you feel stronger. This place isn't for dreamers."

He reached for the hammer again, but Debu's voice cut through the air—low, sharp.

"I'm not leaving."

The hammer paused mid-air.

"I'll swing. I'll bleed. I'll fail. I don't care."

The blacksmith didn't turn. "Then bleed somewhere else."

No more words.

Just the crack of metal against metal.

Debu didn't leave.

He stood there for hours. Watching. Silent. Not asking again.

That night, under moonlight, Debu practiced alone—stick in hand, bruising his palms on a tree stump, mimicking moves he barely understood. Each failed swing echoed the blacksmith's insult. You're not built for this.

He took a stance. It was wrong. His grip too tight. His shoulders stiff.

But he swung anyway.

The first hit scraped bark.

The second knocked him off balance.

The third nearly tore the branch from his hands.

He cursed quietly. Adjusted. Tried again.

Blisters bloomed on his palms before the moon hit its peak. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Every part of him screamed for magic—just a little help. Just enough to make this easier.

But he ignored it.

No shortcuts. No magic. No cheating.

This was just him and the dirt and a stick that didn't want to be swung.

He stumbled. Fell. Grunted back to his feet.

Swung again.

Each hit was raw—no grace, no rhythm. But the sound of bark snapping under effort carried something heavier. I need to get stronger in order to protect them.

In the distance, behind a flickering window, the forge glowed softly.

The hammer had gone quiet hours ago.

And the blacksmith?

Still watching.

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Debu woke to damp grass pressed against his cheek.

His body ached. His stick lay discarded nearby, half-splintered from the night's fury. The field around him was pale in dawn light, silent but no longer empty. 

Planted upright in the soil where he'd been swinging....

A training sword.

Not fancy. Not new. The grip worn smooth in places. The metal dulled at the edges.

Beside it, a book. Thin. Tattered. "Basic Forms of Swordmanship" scrawled across the cover in faded ink.

No note. No name. But it didn't need one.

He sat up slowly, blinking sleep and disbelief out of his eyes. 

He reached for the sword. The weight of it was real.

 Debu's hands were torn open—blisters split, dirt ground into his skin. His breathing came in short bursts. The training sword's weight dragged through each swing like a challenge that refused to give.

But he kept going.

For hours, he repeated the basic forms outlined in the book:

Jōdan no Kamae – high guard stance, blade raised overhead.

Chūdan no Kamae – middle stance, sword held steady in front of him.

Gedan no Kamae – low guard, blade angled toward the ground.

Kesa Giri – diagonal downward cut across the shoulder.

Men Giri – straight downward strike aimed at the head.

Do Giri – horizontal body slash, midsection to ribs.

Tsuki – a precise thrust, aimed at center mass.

........+more.

He failed. Over and over.

The timing was wrong. His footwork clumsy. Cuts lacked control. But he refused to stop. Every missed swing sharpened the next one. Every aching joint trained precision into his form.

By midday, the difference was visible.

His transitions between stances were fluid. His cuts stopped jerking and started flowing. The book wasn't just read—it was lived, etched into muscle memory.

The blacksmith watched from a distance, arms folded, silent. He'd seen men train for weeks to grasp one proper Kesa Giri. Debu had nailed every variations written in book in just six hours. Not just "learning." Mastering. HE HAD NEVER SEEN THIS RATE OF LEARNING, IT WAS INHUMANE.

And then—

One final swing.

He stepped into the cut, weight balanced, hips aligned, breath released at the moment of impact.

Kesa Giri.

The blade—still dulled from wear—sliced through the trunks of three small trees in a clean arc. Wood split like butter. Leaves scattered in shock.

Debu lowered the sword, chest rising and falling, mud streaked across his face.

The blacksmith didn't clap. He didn't smile. But his eyes narrowed. For the first time—

He looked impressed.

Debu had passed out without meaning to, body sunk into mud, sword still lying at his side. His clothes were stained, muscles fried from hours of non-stop training. For the first time in days, he didn't dream—he just rested.

But midnight woke him.

Eyes blinking in the dark, breath shallow, he pushed himself up with a groan. The sword hadn't moved. But something else had.

Right in front of him, sticking out of the dirt like it had dropped from the sky----

Another book. Thicker. Heavier. Wrapped in worn leather.

"Advanced Sword Techniques."

His eyes widened.

He glanced around. Nothing. No footprints. No breeze. No voice.

Just him and the night.

Debu stood slowly, bowed his head, and whispered into the air, "Thanks. Whoever you are."

Then he reached for the book.

But before his fingers could turn the pages of the book----

BOOOOOM. BOOOM. BOOOOM.

A deafening sound shattered the silence, so loud it shook the leaves. The air shifted. Birds screamed and scattered. Debu spun toward the noise, eyes searching through the darkness.

And then he saw him.

Cloak flapping behind him, boots cracking the ground beneath each step---the hero had arrived.

His presence was thick. Drenched in something far worse than arrogance---bloodlust.

Eyes gleaming.

Voice sharp.

He locked onto Debu and hissed through a smile:

"At last… found you."

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